Dan has ignored all of that. He’s bounding along the central aisle, not bothering to look at any of the stalls. He’s always walked too fast for me, surging ahead and then turning back with disdain as if I’m the problem for walking too slowly. ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ I’d say – but he’d never accept that. He was never going too fast; I was always going too slow.
I’m practically at a jog in an attempt to follow as he disappears into the depth of the market. It’s only his bright green jacket that gives me any chance of keeping an eye on him. He disappears around a corner and, by the time I get there, his green coat is storming around another.
The pace at which he’s travelling makes it clear that he knows where he’s going. When I get to the next corner, he’s in the distance, weaving between shoppers and browsers with impressive ease. He’s always been impatient, often walking away from shops or restaurants simply because there’s a queue. He never suffered fools, either.
We’re towards the furthest reaches of the field now, with a hedge at the end of the aisle instead of more stalls. I’m still at a jog when I realise Dan has slowed almost to a stop. The stalls are further apart, with regular people selling from a car, as opposed to professional traders.
I’m still a good distance from him but it’s quickly apparent why Dan is here – and why he’s stopped. One of the final stalls is selling exercise gear. There are yoga balls and mats, small weights, stretch bands, and protein shakers.
I edge forward slowly, closing the gap because Dan is moving even slower. My first thought is that they’ve arranged this but that changes immediately when I see the look on Alice’s face after she spots him. She’s in her tight yoga gear, a bright figure-hugging pink and blue lycra against the gloom of the field. The smile is initially painted on as she tries to attract customers but, as soon as Alice sees Dan, her expression slips. She’s confused and definitely not expecting him. I drift off to a stall selling second-hand clothes, flicking through the items on a rail and using it to shield myself from Dan and Alice.
He steps towards her, arms wide for a hug. She accepts it, but only leaning forward with the top half of her body. I’m too far away to hear what’s being said but her body language gives away that her opening line is something like, ‘What are you doing here?’
Dan is all smiles and charm – but she’s like a wall. He speaks for a few seconds and she replies with one- or two-word answers. I move to a second rack of clothes, still watching, fascinated at seeing someone I thought I knew so well in an alien situation.
And then I get it. Dan’s smitten with her.
For Alice, the cheery pleasantness is part of the job. If her clients book more sessions, she makes more money. That’s how she pays her bills. It’s her job to put on that front. Dan has misread everything. What Alice sees as drumming up repeat business, Dan has misconstrued as flirting.
Oh, God.
I’m cringing as I watch them. It’s like the geeky kid trying to ask out the most popular girl in school. Ellie and I used to gossip and giggle about this type of thing when we were young teenagers. This type of tittle-tattle was our lives before we discovered cigarettes and alcohol.
Alice’s arms are folded across her front and, every time Dan takes a half-step forward, she takes one back. She’s smiling but, even from this distance, I can see that it’s not real. She isn’t enjoying this at all.
Dan is oblivious. He’s leaning forward, doing that thing where he talks with his hands like an excited octopus. They do a strange semicircle around her stall, Dan taking small steps forward as she takes larger steps back. It’s like an elaborate performance dance piece and so terrible to watch.
It takes a good five minutes but Dan eventually seems to take the hint that she’s not interested in whatever he has to say. They do the relieved goodbye wave that people do when they’re grateful an encounter is over, and then Dan turns on his heels. I duck behind the original rail of clothes but he’s not looking anywhere other than the path in front of him. He’s frowning, confused, unsure what’s just happened.
I watch him go, striding at the same pace as before in the direction we came.
It’s perhaps the last thing I expected but there’s a part of me that feels sorry for him. Here we are, half our lives gone, neither of us apparently knowing what’s next. He was convinced he’d caught the eye of a gorgeous young woman. Who wouldn’t be flattered? Perhaps he still thinks that’s the case? It’s not love, perhaps not even lust, but crushes can come from nowhere. Suddenly, a perfectly sane and settled person can be fourteen again, insides churning at the thought of somebody else’s attention.
I watch my husband disappear into the distance, not bothering to try to keep up this time. Then I remember the thousand pounds on our credit card statement – and everything else that’s been going on. It doesn’t feel so innocent any longer.
Chapter Forty-One
Stephen is already sitting at the restaurant table when he realises who I am. I approach quickly and he starts to stand with an awkward ‘oh’, but I’m moving too fast. Before he can step away, I take his wrist and squeeze.
‘Sit,’ I say.
Seeing his face up close makes my memory of the other night so much clearer. He’s not quite the image of perfection I’d convinced myself he was. There’s a spot under his chin and the hint of wrinkles around his eyes – but he’s still good-looking. He’s got dark designer stubble and his hair is thick and swept back as if he’s on a cliff-top photoshoot.
‘Do you want to make a scene?’ I ask quietly.
The restaurant is far from full but Stephen glances around at the meagre number of patrons and retakes his seat.
The person from the agency who I spoke to on the phone chose well. Marco’s is a nice place. It’s all high ceilings, bright lights, potted plants and gentle music. I imagine it’s the type of place with a wine cellar, or where companies will book the whole place out for a Christmas party.
Stephen is looking anywhere but at me. I was ten minutes late, wanting to make sure he was in place so that he couldn’t spot me early and disappear.
Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter has swooped, filling glasses with water. He has a Mediterranean accent that sounds a little exaggerated and says he’ll be back shortly for drinks orders.
I sip the water, waiting for Stephen’s attention.
He stares at a spot towards the door, doing all he can to avoid my stare.
‘You were far chattier the other night,’ I say.
‘Yeah, um… I think I should probably go.’
‘I think you should stay.’
He doesn’t move, so I reach into my bag and remove the envelope, pushing it across the table. ‘That’s your five hundred,’ I say. ‘Count it if you want.’
Stephen reaches for the envelope instinctively but withdraws his hand without picking it up.
‘My daily limit at the cash machine is three hundred,’ I tell him. ‘I had to split it between my credit and debit cards. It’s all there.’
‘You should keep it. I’ve got to go.’
He starts to stand but I grab his wrist once more, squeezing harder this time. ‘Sit down and listen to me.’
The woman two tables away has noticed something’s happening and is starting to stare. Stephen flashes her a toothy grin to let her know all is well and then he slips back onto the chair. He’s in a slim-fit suit, with a skinny tie and glimmering cufflinks. It’s a bit overdressed for an afternoon in this Italian – but I’m not fussed if he stands out.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
The waiter arrives before I answer and I order a sparkling water. Stephen says he’s fine with the standard table water and the server scuttles off once more, clicking his heels as he goes. That’s his actual heels. He’s wearing a pair of Cubans, adding at least half an inch to his height.
I have a large sip of my own table water, taking my time.
‘I think you know what I want,’ I reply.
‘Is Stephen your real name?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s probably a work name.’
He shrugs.
‘You get paid to spend time with women.’
Stephen undoes the cufflink entirely, dropping the two pieces into his jacket pocket. He wriggles his shoulders and slips the jacket off before starting to roll up his shirt sleeve.
‘You spent most of an evening with me and yet I never paid you,’ I say. ‘That means you either did it out of the kindness of your heart, or someone else paid you.’
He undoes the other cufflink, puts that into his pocket and rolls up the second sleeve. That done he presses his forearms onto the table, interlinks his fingers and leans forward.
‘That’s private,’ he says.
‘Are you joking?’
‘Does it sound like I am?’
He stares at me now and there’s little trace of the flirty stare I so remember. He’s not angry; he’s cornered and doesn’t know what to do. He’s older than I thought; older than his profile claims. There’s no way he’s twenty-four, he has to be at least thirty. The creases around his lips are the giveaway.
‘How can it be private?’ I say. ‘I thought you were interested in talking to me. I thought we had a fun evening. If I’d known you were being paid—’
He cuts me off: ‘Then what? What would have been different? All of that still happened. Why does it matter?’
‘It matters to me.’
He holds up both hands. ‘How? Explain it. Is music better if you get into a gig for free? Is a meal better if someone else pays? The experience is still the same. If you enjoyed something, then what does it matter about the other stuff?’
I start to reply but realise that I don’t have an answer. I’m not convinced it’s the same thing and yet there’s an element of his argument that’s unquestionably true. The parts of the evening I remember were good.
He shows no joy at leaving me speechless and I get the sense he’s argued this point in the past. Probably to friends, possibly to girlfriends. Maybe even his parents.
Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter hustles over with glass of fizzy water for me. He asks if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu but I tell him I think we need more time.
I wait until he’s well out of earshot and then lean forward, speaking firmly but quietly. ‘You conned your way into my bedroom.’
His eyes widen: ‘Now you are joking.’
‘Why would I be joking?’
He stares, his perfectly manicured eyebrow twitching: ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘That evening.’
‘Flashes – that’s all. I remember eating by the window and then going back to the bar. I remember the lifts kept dinging while we were waiting to go upstairs. You lowered me onto the bed in my room. That’s it. I think I drank too much.’
He leans in slightly and then presses away again. It’s like he’s trying to read my mind, to make sure I’m not lying.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I really should go.’
I end up banging the table with my palm. It’s louder than I meant and the three or four couples dotted around the restaurant all stop to look. The envelope of money remains untouched on the table.
‘You owe me an explanation,’ I hiss.
Stephen glances around and sighs. The other sets of eyes slowly shift back to their own tables. Of course, it’s at this minute that the waiter reappears, full of a thin-lipped smile.
‘Have we had a chance to examine the menu yet?’ he asks.
‘Can I have the spaghetti bolognaise,’ I ask.
I’ve not looked at the menu but spaghetti has to be a solid bet in an Italian.
The waiter smiles and makes a note on a pad before turning to Stephen: ‘And you, Sir?’
He sighs again but doesn’t touch the menu.
‘Order something,’ I say.
The waiter turns between us and there’s a moment in which it feels like we’re all looking to each other. He knows something odd is going on but can’t delve into what. Instead, he asks if we need another minute.
‘No,’ I tell him firmly and then turn back to Stephen, repeating that he should order something.
‘Lasagne,’ Stephen says. He hasn’t looked at the menu either.
‘Very well, Sir.’
The waiter collects both unopened menus and does a very good impression of someone who has witnessed a perfectly normal occurrence.
‘Who paid you?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on. That’s rubbish.’
‘It’s really not.’
‘So how was it set up?’
‘It’s private.’
Stephen squirms like a kid on a church pew and I realise that the confidence is all a shield. He’s immature, probably broke. This is one of the few things he has going for him.
‘This was off the books, wasn’t it?’
I’m not sure how I know but Stephen gives enough of an answer by wriggling even more.
‘I’m going to call your boss,’ I say. ‘That woman from the website. Ask her if she knows you were working for someone else on Monday night.’
‘Don’t!’
He hisses the reply and then glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s not being overheard. ‘Please don’t,’ he says, far more quietly.
‘So tell me.’
He sighs again, checks around to make sure nobody can hear and then lowers his voice so that I can barely catch the words. ‘It was all on email,’ he says.
‘How did someone get your email? I thought it was done through a website?’
‘It is… well, it usually is. I’ve got two mobiles – one for work, one for me. I’ve also got a few email addresses. Sometimes I give my actual number or email to a client.’
‘The person who contacted you is a former client?’
He bites his lip and shakes his head: ‘I’ve been doing this for years. At first it was just the odd woman but then I started telling people they could pass it onto their friends. I probably get half a dozen emails a week from people I’ve never met. My details have been passed on so many times over that it’s not really a secret any longer.’
‘What does that mean?’
Stephen presses back and runs a hand through his hair. He glances across to the waiter, who is perched on a stool at the bar, pretending not to watch us. He’s well out of earshot.
‘It means I often meet women who’ve not gone through the agency,’ Stephen says. ‘They say they got my email or phone number from a friend and I take it at that.’
‘You make more money if you arrange things yourself…?’
‘Obviously.’
I don’t know enough about the industry to know how things work but it sounds genuine enough. I have another sip of water, taking a couple of seconds to think it over.
‘Who emailed you asking you to meet me in the hotel?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
He’s unrolling his sleeves now: ‘It’s the truth.’
‘How much were you paid?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘How were you paid?’
‘PayPal.’
‘Is DBA Enterprises something to do with you?’
He looks at me blankly and pouts a lip. ‘Should it be?’
I try to look for any sort of tic to say he might be lying – but there’s nothing. I’m not convinced I know when someone’s telling the truth anyway. I couldn’t spot the truth from my own husband a few hours ago. Just because Stephen doesn’t know DBA Enterprises, it doesn’t mean the thousand pounds that left Dan’s credit card wasn’t funnelled through some other account before being sent via PayPal to him. T
hat’s low on my priorities for now.
‘What happened in the hotel?’ I ask.
Stephen bites his lip and frowns. He seems confused. ‘We ate, we talked and we drank.’
‘Then what?’
‘We didn’t sleep together.’
I was almost certain of that anyway but breathe out in relief. I might tamper with evidence but I’m not an adulterer. Bully for me. ‘You were still in my room, though…?’ I say. ‘You helped me into bed.’
‘I made sure you were safe.’
The word stings. I start to say something and then stop myself. ‘Safe from what?’
His eye twitches as he realises he’s said too much.
‘What did you do?’ I ask.
He rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes closed tight. As I watch him, an ominous creeping sensation starts to ripple through me. The dawning realisation of something I should have figured out before.
‘I only had three drinks,’ I say. ‘You spiked me, didn’t you?’
Stephen doesn’t reply, instead screwing up his lips and chewing on them. His allure has long gone and he looks like a man whose life is crumbling in front of him.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come off it.’
‘I really don’t.’
‘So how did you get it? Why did you do it? Were you going to rob me?’
He shakes his head. ‘It was all in the email,’ he replies.
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s said.
‘Someone emailed you asking to spike my drink?’
It’s barely there but he nods. He glances to the waiter again but nobody has moved. No one can hear us. ‘They wanted me to befriend you and then slip something into your drink. They said it would be funny – that you’d find it hilarious.’
‘Hilarious? Are you joking?’
‘I wish…’
He can’t look at me – but the same is true of me. I can’t stand the sight of him. It feels like I’ve been invaded.
Last Night Page 25
